Nothing to Eat | Page 2

prove by a witness
that few will dispute,
A pink of perfection and truth in the naion

Where fashion and folly are all of a suit.
'Tis "Merdle the banker"--or rather his wife,
Whose fashion, religion,
or music, or dress,
Is followed, consulted, by many through life,
As
pilots are followed by ships in distress;
For money's a pilot, a master,
a king,
Which men follow blindly through quicksands and shoals,

Where pilots their ships in a moment might fling
To destruction the
vessel and cargo and souls.
'Twas money made Kitty of fashion the queen,
And fortune oft lends
queens the scepter;
So fortune and fashion with this one we've seen

Her money and fortune in fashion has kept her;
While slaves of the
queen with her hoops rules the day,
Expanding their utmost extent of

expansion,
And mandates of fashion most freely obey,
And would
if it bid all their souls to extinction.
The Object aimed at.
But what "lady patron" as queen holds the sway;
Or sweeping, whose
hoops in the street are most sweeping;
The burthen is not of this
truth-telling lay,
That should in its reading the world set to weeping,

While telling the suff'rings from head to the feet,
Of poor human
beings with _nothing to eat_.
What another Poet did.
Another expounder of life's thorny mazes
Excited our pity at fortune's
hard fare,
And troubled the city's most troublesome places,
While
singing his ditty of "Nothing to Wear."
"A tale worth the telling,"' though I tell for the same,
Great objects of
pity we see in the street,
"With nothing to wear, though a legion by
name,
Is not to buy clothing, but something to eat.
How the Author sometimes Dines.
And now by your leave I will try to expound it,
In truth as it is and
the way that I found it.
My dinner, sometimes, like things transcendental
And things more
substantial, like women and wine
A thing is, uncertain, and quite
accidental,
And sometimes I wonder, "Oh! where shall I dine?"
It was when reflecting one evening of late,
What tavern or hotel or
dining-room skinner,
With table cloth dirty and dirtier plate,
Would
give me a nausea and call it a dinner,
I met with Jack Merdle, a name
fully known
As good for a million in Stock-gamblers' Street,
Where
none but a nabob or forger high flown
With "bulls" or with "bears"
need look for a seat.

Merdle the Banker.
Now Merdle this day having toss'd with his horns
The bears that were
pulling so hard at the stocks,
And gored every bull that was treading
his corns,
Had lined all his pockets with "plenty of rocks,"
And
home now was driving at "two forty" speed,
Where dinner was
waiting--"a jolly good feed."
Himself feeling happy, he knew by my looks,
A case full of sadness
and deep destitution
Was present in person, not read of in books,

Appealing in pity for an alms institution.
Places Where Mortals Dine.
The case, too, was urgent, for there stood a sinner,
Whose fate hung
on chance--a chance for his dinner;
A chance for all mortals, with
truth I assert,
Who eat where his chance was, to counteract fate,
"To
eat during life each a peck of pure dirt"
By eating at once the whole
peck from one plate.
For true when I think of the places we eat at,

Or rather the places by hunger when driven
We rush in and swallow
our bread and our meat at,
A bushel good measure in life will be
given
To those who are living a "boarding-house life,"
Or those
who are driven by fortune to journey,
And eat when we must with so
dirty a knife,
I wish't could be done by the power of attorney;
Or
where you must eat in a place called "saloon;"
Or "coffee-house"
synonym of whisky and rum;
(I wish all the breed were sent off to the
moon,
And earth was well clear of the coffee-house scum;)
Or
where "Restauration" hangs out for sign,
At bar-room or cellar or
dirty back room,
Where dishcloths for napkins are thought extra fine,

And table cloths look as though washed with a broom;
Where
knives waiters spit on and wipe on their sleeves,
And plates needing
polish, with coat tails are cleaned;
Where priests dine with harlots,
and judges with thieves,
And mayors with villains his worship has
screened.

[ILLUSTRATION: "WHERE KNIVES WAITERS SPIT ON AND
WIPE ON THEIR SLEEVES, AND PLATES NEEDING POLISH,
WITH COAT TAILS ARE CLEANED."]
Things That Mortals Eat There.
And what do you eat in the mess there compounded?
For roast beef,
the gravy the soap-man should claim--
The soup some odd things
might turn up if sounded,
And other "made-dishes" might turn up the
same.
Decoctions that puzzle your chemical skill,
You get if you call either
coffee or tea;
And milk that is made with and tastes of the swill,
As
like milk, as wine is that often we see
Is like to the juice of the grape
in perfection,
Or like as the candidate after election
Is like the fair
thing that we hoped or expected
Before the base thief was exposed or
detected;
As like truth and virtue--and more is the pity--
The men
we elected